


Sigh's Smell of Farewell

by ThereminVox



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-22 19:47:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15589383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThereminVox/pseuds/ThereminVox
Summary: Dutch spends his final moments reflecting on past kinships. If home was where the heart is, he regretted to say, it had checked out a long time ago.





	1. Chapter 1

Richard Roosevelt’s was that of a face inconsiderably wizened by age. Framed crow’s feet, neglected laugh lines, and greying whiskers of goatee, featured by an accentuated, all-encompassing bald spot, amused the looking glass with belated benediction. High noon befell the isle’s sole bunker whilst his tinted spectacles refracted visions of pleasantry in the midst of detaining gloom.

 

 

_“Russia has been attacked. Bombs hit Moscow this morning. No final word on casualties, but experts are saying the numbers are in the millions. If there was any hope for peace, it’s gone now.”_

 

 

If there was anything Dutch refused to assert, it evinced through his otherwise betraying label of patriotism. He had been thirty-seven when he was promoted to corporal during his time in the Army Reserve, stationed just 30 miles away from his home base of Buies Creek, North Carolina to the Special Operations Force nestled away in Fort Bragg. After just a few weeks of delegating style leadership, he was coursed for a swift exchange in service with that of the anterior sergeant in command, of whom had been defected as a Soviet spy following the events that occurred during one atypical morn of mess hall antics.

 

It was on this day, August of 1990, where Dutch would witness the origins of “ _The Father’s_ ” presiding augury. That ostensible menace of Hope County. 

 

 

_“…Montana isn’t expected to be affected but it’s always possible. Keep alert, people. Stock up on food and water, just in case.“_

 

 

Dutch was anything but religious.

Moreover, Richard illustrated an even less than picturesque press of fidelity. Nevertheless, it aimed to nudge insistently at the wags of his better judgment as he was poised to intervene and suspend yet another session of canteen melee. This instance, however, was a curious spell. Instead of stumbling across the usual raucous chorus of food complaints (Dutch could be honest and admit the chefs were better off serving in a pigsty) or chanting incentives for brawl, redolent of The Royal Rumble, he was greeted alternatively by an uncharacteristic trend of inaction.

 

Sergeant Petrov had been a man of few words, only electing to depart confidential respects when concerning troop welfare and especially so for confiding key grid coordinates relative to the upcoming Gulf War, formally evaded from its appropriate deathmatch designation. Now it seemed his mute persona had deigned to retire for a hounding moment’s grace. The young boy assigned under his command stood at 6 feet flat. A mere two inches shy of Richard’s 6’2 stature. Yet still an underwhelming contrast to the present bulk of personage arresting his rangy frame.

 

Richard had approached with caution, conflicted in his position to question the rather intense stare down that attracted a generous audience of all brunch attendees. He offers his best utterance of authority, still unaccustomed to this foreign display of extroversion and disciplinary resolve.

 

“Everything alright here, sergeant?”

 

The man in question remains silent and focused.

 

Without missing a beat, the boy speaks in his stead.

 

“Just havin’ a civil discussion. None you should worry about. Ain’t that right,  _Sarge_?”

 

 _Well his voice sure doesn’t match that scrawny stature_ , Richard muses as he keeps his eye trained on Petrov, not yet affording the boy a second glance.

 

“Huh. Doesn’t look so civil from where I’m standin’. Must be serious if the two o’ you look just about ready to rip each other a new one.”

 

A trace of deafening stillness sedates the succeeding seconds before Petrov cedes to pronounce his flinty attendance, tongue as toneless as any perfunctory breath of imposing order.

 

“Our little soldier here has convinced himself of my alleged treason to this organization. Says I’m a threat to this very country even.”

 

Richard finally offers his wilting interest as the boy severs the exchange of prolonged eye contact only to direct an icy yet pleading glare to pierce his own weary gaze. His reddish hair was an anomaly in the otherwise drudging monotony of his day-to-day operations and if he had felt compelled to examine further, he might have been pleased to seize an inkling of insolence to pervade the intolerably conformist nature of political piety.

 

“It’s no secret we’re runnin’ on borrowed time, sir, so I think it’s in all our best interests to drop pretense and grant some ounce of integrity before we’re all shipped off with one-way tickets as human target practice. Long story short, this man ain’t one of us. He’s a comrade for the Commies. An enemy of the state.”

 

Yet again, Richard was reminded of just how uncomfortable and unversed in communication he was, mentally chiding himself for thinking it was a remotely good idea to engage in confrontation, of all things. Even so, he gathered to summon the most solicitous expression he could because he’d be damned if he wasn’t the most inexpressive bastard there ever was. He was hard-pressed to agree or disagree with either side of argument. So what if the guy turned out to be a rat? Didn’t make a damn difference when those bigwigs were in cahoots one way or the other, and he didn’t damn well appreciate being pushed in the spotlight. Although a novel part of his conscience had to admit this unexpected stab of relief from being wrested from his comfort zone.

 

 _Lord knows I need_ something  _to fill the void._

 

“That’s a bold accusation, son. Mind explaining how you came to that conclusion?”

 

Once the supposed traitor had decided a certain fair-skinned boy was no longer worth the brunt of his immutable scrutiny, he closed his eyes and tilted his head downwards, offering a short huff of breath from the nose in mock humor before whisking his left hand in dismissal.

 

“There’s no need, Corporal. We don’t entertain  _children_ and this young man should be mindful of his tongue or else we’ll be more than happy to oblige his implicit request for expulsion. Seems you have to tighten the leash on this one. The old patrons at the orphanage clearly couldn’t keep a hold on the mutt if he’s disposed to our care. Cast him to the streets. Frankly, I’d say it’s where he belongs. An undesirable stray, toughened by the filth of society. Maybe then, he’ll recognize and understand his place.”

 

Richard couldn’t lie. He was intrigued by this new vestige of knowledge disclosed regarding the kid’s background. Too bad he couldn’t help rolling his metaphorical eyes at Petrov’s sudden dramatic presentation. Dutch wouldn’t have known it until after the fact but the man had, in fact, been a Russian native, working undercover to gather intel from the largest military installation in America. While in service, he had chosen, quite possibly, the most indiscreet alias. A Mr. “James Smith” to (poorly) shadow the attenuating contours of Afanasi Petrov.

 

“Believe what you wanna believe”, the kid contends. Ultimately, he’s tired himself of their trivial (albeit revealing) interaction, resolving to turn on his heel and reclaim his duty of seat warming at the adjacent table.

 

Sergeant “Smith” had merely deigned to giving a trenchant yet sparing glance between them both before instructing the remaining crowd of trainees to return to their tables, ironically urging them to erase from the mind any and all account of the preceding incident. 

If it could even be called that.

 

_Kid’s definitely more mature than I thought._

_Mr. Tight Lip also isn’t so shy at the mouth after all._

 

Amid the silent dispersal of bodies, Richard could discern, by each windows’ shifting rays, that the Sun had reached its zenith, chiming late afternoon hours. He watches as the man in high command fulfills his walk of shame, promptly discarding his cap as he chooses to join the curious young man who had quickly been noted as occupying an entire table to his lonesome.

 

“So what kinda rebel are you?”

 

“Obviously the kind that doesn’t salute their superiors.”

 

He tilts his head up in acknowledgement and raises his eyebrows, a look of mischievous knowing glinting his pupils.

 

“Yeah, I saw ya. Got a pretty keen eye, mind you. I also wasn’t lyin’ about-“

 

“How?”

 

“…Well, you can tell his speech is off, can’t ya? Guy couldn’t feign a  _gen-you-wine_ Southern accent if he tried. That’s why he keeps his mouth shut and when he does speak, he’s talkin’ all proper. Like he’s tryna hide somethin’.”

 

“Glad we’re on the same page, then. Was askin’ just for that reason.”

 

“So we gonna expose and deport that bastard, or what? This place needs a lil’ pep in its step. Gettin’ worse than juvie, if ya ask me.”

 

_Juvie huh?_

 

“Rest assured, we’ll get to that. I’m with ya. But first things first….”

 

Richard stands proudly and extends his arm with open palm. 

 

“Would help to know the man I’m conspiring with.

 

Just in case shit hits the fan, I’ll know who to blame.

 

Name’s Richard. But you can call me Dutch.”

 

“Hm. Isn’t ‘Dick’ the common nickname for Richard?”

 

Dutch would’ve narrowed his gaze and opt to denounce his previous averment of maturity if it hadn’t been for the kid’s subsequent display of sentiment. It conveyed as a tugging reminder of Raina and Robert, a wife and newborn son awaiting back home of whom God only knows could ever truly be loving towards the man he was trying adamantly, if not desperately, to be.

 

He may not have shared any particular features of physical significance to provoke paternal sensibility, but this gangly, ginger boy, with icy iris and emphatic voice, stood tall and mustered the first semblance of smile Dutch had observed from his first month of initiation. He decides to award a twitch of his own as the boy extends his hand forth, responding in kind, grip surprisingly firm and inviting.

 

“Nice meetin’ ya, Dutch.

Name’s Seed.

Jacob Seed.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Date** :  _8th of August, 1990._

 **Time** :  _1800 hours._

 **Remaining countdown** :  _Eve before dispatch._

 

 

Reception Week was arguably the most anticipated function of basic training. However, unlike the older, more experienced batch before them, these harrowed substitutes were deprived of charitable celebration. The standard ten weeks duration of rookie adjustment was unjustly condensed to that of five unforgiving days. Accordingly, many of the fresh recruits had expressed a fair bit of trouble falling in as they were given nothing akin to a parachute and attending cushion to break the fall. Seven days prior, Wednesday had commenced a brutal wake up call, deviating from their normal 6 AM summons towards the tedious yet relatively plain sailing ventures of academia. They were a uniform melting pot of eighteen and nineteen year olds, segregated by gender and driven to abscond sensitivity or be braced to endure the phantom pains of a consequent boot.

 

Regrettably, choice had presented as a luxury of ephemeral propensity. When a second draft lottery had been proposed two months precedent, in commemoration of the Vietnam lotteries 21 years anterior, very few were admitted to utter voices of dissent and dismay. It was a simple yet cruel matter of being born at an unfortunate date in the otherwise heedless frame of time. A number of them had originally been coursed to further their education. Ivy League preps, trust fund brats, ambitious minds yet endowed by lax reprieve. Misconception of the Army housing misfits was far from applicable, even if this specific instance conveyed as coincidence.

 

Tensions were steadily rising between Iraq and Kuwait. Just a day after the boys were poised for enlistment, the American government was already filing it under the name of ‘Persian Gulf War’. Whether or not it was a front for facilitating national acclaim or demonstrating candid altruism for their “fellow man” was irrelevant. The president and his Cabinet were provided the necessary funds for promoting warfare whereas general endorsement of welfare would have proved unavailing in any case for a nation of utmost abundance.

 

Naturally, reflecting pressures pervaded each empty hall of the residential building. Everyone had more or less taken to catching shut-eye at a markedly early time. No other viable preparations were made evident throughout those disquieting final moments. There was a war coming, and regardless of any last minute sentiments, they would be expected, guns at the ready, to oppose swarms of elusive enemies along those forbidding frontlines.

 

Among this pervasive passivity persisted a relic of animation, epitomised by the barrack’s singular phlegmatic duo.

 

“What’s funny is that this ain’t even their fight. What business would Russia have in Middle Eastern relations?”

 

Dutch had pondered similar inquiry but his intrigue was more or less possessed by the desire to acquire information about the boy sitting before him at his desk, legs propped up on the cluttered surface with arms crossed as he chewed rigorously on a trio of toothpicks.

 

“Your records document you as a Georgia transplant. Why not be stationed at Fort Benning, where it’s closer to home? Out of all these poor saps, I know you’re the only one who’s path was a decision entirely your own.”

 

Jacob’s ears perked up a bit as his mouth ceased its gnawing motions. It was amusing, to say the least. If nothing else, those ears were fairly telling in their equivocal nature. Protruding, and thus practically beseeching verbal onslaught. Fortunately, as had been observed on that Sunday morning, his portrayal of confidence (in absence of residual arrogance) was refreshing to behold. Dutch found his unfiltered diction to be an admirable quality mirroring his own muted delivery of disposition. He had hoped the boy’s honesty wouldn’t be short-lived as he noticed the way he kept his eyes downcast, seemingly betraying that steady guise of conviction. He looked as if he had seen the beginnings of a waifing spirit, not quite all there in its opaque remembrance.

 

“I wouldn’t use the word  _home_ lightly. If home is where the heart is, sorry to say it checked out a long time ago.”

 

His emotional variability was sudden as he brings his right hand to his chest, clutching weakly at the fitted grey tee, shaking his head slightly with a faint smile (clearly teasing), whilst altering his pitch to a higher tone.

 

“Why Dutch, might I say I’m awful touched at your concern. Y’ know, ya kinda remind me of those sweet old caretakers we had back at the orphanage. If you ain’t a granddad now, I’d reckon you’d be pretty great.”

 

“I’m 37.”

 

“Uh-huh, and then in ten years you’ll be  _forty_ -seven, then  _fifty_ -seven, sixty-seven. ….Assuming you even get to live that long.”

 

“Who’s “ _we_ ”?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“You mentioned more than one back at the orphanage? Record didn’t say anything about you havin’ siblings.”

 

Jacob grunts softly in admission but a few moments pass before it becomes clear to Dutch that he isn’t comfortable divulging that information. Considering he wasn’t much for interrogation himself, he decides not to prod any further.

 

“Eh, my story probably ain’t much but I got my fair share of old wounds. Got a baby boy waitin’ but his mother’s determined to ignore me. Wouldn’t be surprised if she’s throwing a party right about this hour, thinking about how tomorrow could easily be my last.”

 

“Do you love him?”

 

“…As idiotic as it sounds, he’s the reason why I enlisted.”

 

Jacob sighs then, withdrawing his legs and moving to stand, all manner of casual jest exchanged for solemn musing.

 

“Look, I don’t mean to lecture you on parenting but take it from me. You made a mistake comin’ here. Don’t get yourself killed just to seem heroic to a kid who can’t even walk, let alone recognize you as a father.”

 

Surprised as he was, Dutch could only aim to peer up, taking heed to the young man’s words as he couldn’t find any reason to refute him.

 

“Although I can’t fault ya too much. Compared to Old Mad Seed, you’re a saint in my book.”

 

He grabs his personalised army coat from its draped placement on the chair and slings it over his shoulder as he turns around, suggesting leave.

 

“Just promise me one thing. If we manage to make it outta this shitshow in one piece, let your son be the saving grace he’s meant to be. Nobody’s guiltin’ you for being afraid.”

 

His slow strides lead him to the door and Dutch hears a faint jingle from the doorknob now held firmly in Jacob’s grip.

 

“Abandoning him now will only make the journey more demanding.”

 

At that, he’s bidden a brisk farewell from a faint click of the door closing, promptly left alone with only the company of his thoughts offering last remaining remnants of energy. He expels a silent string of breath as he swivels his seat to a set of idle radio monitors, reaching a hand forth to flick the closest FM switch.

 

Dutch had never been one for doo-wop ballads but Richard could certainly appreciate the more cryptic elements of the lyrics, befitting for the now barren veil of dusk emerging.

 

 

 

_Only you can make this change in me_

_For it’s true, you are my destiny_


	3. Chapter 3

“Finally got a haircut, I see. The curl’s a nice touch.”

 

“Well, gotta at least look good for the open casket. And uh… not sure I’d be able to pull off the ‘bare as a baby’s bottom look’.”

 

Jacob winks, curling his lip to the side in a nameless gesture of “le tchip”.

 

“Seein’ as you’ll be up in the heavens, I don’t think there’d be much of you left to present if you come crashin’ down.”

 

“Ah. You said “if”. Didn’t think ya had _that_ much faith in me.”

 

“Hmph. I’ll leave that to The Man Upstairs.”

 

_0400._

The hour was a placid ode penetrating through otherwise impending brume of doom. As Dutch would have it, he could afford to exaggerate in those distressed strokes of brevity; especially so when considering the myriad of inventive blunders and mishaps he could conjure in mind as to how he could die before they even touched ground.

 

Morbid curiosity was second nature to Richard. As a child, he had always accepted his mortality by means of exposure to all things macabre. Hardly had he ever expressed fear of Death itself, but more so gnawing concern as to how and when his impermanence would ultimately bid him a curt adieu. Gerascophobia had been determined in hindering this journey towards accepting what was beyond his control. His 21st birthday signified the certified gateway into “adulthood” and whilst he would occasionally be pleased with visions of growing old in body all the while preserving vigorous spirit, each passing day became progressive in its tedium and briefness; as well regressive in its capacity to offer anything imaginative to the abstracted eye.

 

In a sense, he supposed he was destined from the beginning towards crafting an adrenaline junkie alias. But alas, it’s reign could only serve for so long. As mawkish as it seemed, Raina had arrived as a wrecking ball in the third decade of his sober allegiance. No longer could he deny the grating succession of joints following high intensity workout sessions before dawn’s break. His primary station of duty, from ages 18 to 25, had been devoted to National Guard ranks and while he had only been assigned to medic function for the closing years of Vietnam, combat training was no less uncompromising.

 

Whether or not he was relieved after discharge, he couldn’t say. In just one of four garrisons, he was acknowledged by name and urged into a thriving and indomitable community. Among droves of forgettable faces, he was made immortalized by badges and marks of skinship, certificates of commendation, heightened by fortifying etch of denomination. Each singular, dynamic step emanated tremors of purpose, denouncing any threat of consternation. The cafeteria had been extra rowdy that evening.

And for good reason.

 

“Are y’all gonna tell me where that bird for brains is hidin’ or are ya just gonna stand around like a buncha untamed vultures? God forbid we’re suddenly eighteen again.”

 

_Raina Roosevelt, née Robinson._

An imposing 5’11 spitfire who, at present, was being hounded by a number of young men inquiring as to what prompted her individual presence.

 

“You ain’t s’posed to be in the male ward, missy”, one stout man utters. Poor lad was about a good 7 inches short from Raina. He had to elevate himself somehow.

 

“Wait a minute now, Curbe. I don’t see no harm in lettin’ her overstay her welcome. She’s a nurse after all. Thinkin’ I got a little ache that needs some TLC, if ya know what I mean.”

 

A chorus of laughter erupts from the herd, until the sound of the woman’s voice causes them to simmer down.

 

“ _Curbe_ ? Is _that_ what they call you? Oh! Because your teeth got kicked to the curb from not picking on someone your own size. Can’t see how that’s a bad thing though…”

 

She stoops down to his level, whispering the final blow.

 

“ _Most men prefer nothin’ but tongue.”_

 

Another virile voice interjects before the man with Napoleon Syndrome could offer a livid rebuttal.

 

“Just ‘cause you’re a girl don’t mean we can’t fight ya. In this case, that pretty face ain’t gonna help ya none.”

 

“Makes my job a hell of a lot easier.”

 

Dutch had abandoned his stance of shadowed observation and was in the process of interfering. All things considered, it wasn’t confrontation if he was simply defending someone’s honor. Expressly, this someone proved a rare exception to the rule.

 

“Ah! Richie. There you are. Your fellow meatheads should be lucky you came just in time.”

 

All these eyes suddenly watching him. Scrutinizing beneath a veil of deafening silence. Now the pluck of his initiative had begun to merge with his swelling pulse.

 

“...Richie?”

 

_I live for you, but I’m not alive._

 

“ _Richie, you’re getting pale…._

_Richie, talk to me!_

_Richie!”_

 

Dutch blinks away blears of confusion, sights adjusting gradually to the immediate change in scenery. A commanding voice from his right clears his misty reverie to a group of males seated before him, grasping firm to their seatbelts as the planes’ turbulence escalated.

 

“Ready for dispatch in T minus 60 seconds! This is it soldiers! There’s only one way down so brace yourselves and prepare to haul ass!”

 

From his left, a familiar yet deadened voice allays his ear.

 

“You alright, man? Don’t get all fritzy on me now. I know being an adult and havin’ to hang around a buncha kids with a 50/50 chance of becomin’ a stain on the Earth ain’t comfortin’ but hey, at least my mug will be the last thing you see if push comes to shove.”

 

Dutch offers a shaky exchange of breath as the first batch of paratroopers maneuver closer towards the lowered platform, single file with parachutes at the ready.

 

“Two weeks man. Two weeks and three days of more aimless wanderin’ through some random encampment, but now... we’re finally here.”

 

Jacob moves to join the next line but not before being halted at the wrist.

 

“Ya never did tell me why you enlisted. That lottery drawing didn’t have your name on it. So why? Why go to the risk of gettin’ yourself killed? Is that what you wanted all along?”

 

A wry smile contorts the lower half of Jacob’s face, heavy auburn stubble suggesting the hint of a growing beard.

 

“It wasn’t something I wanted….

It was something that I had to do.”

 

Dutch releases his grip as the man turns distrait, staring out unto gaping view of gradient sky.

 

 

“….It was my test.”

 

 

Richard was given sparse seconds to react as Jacob briskly breaks into a sprint, steps synced with ample precision to disperse the addled sea, imprudent to the Sergeant’s berating call, as he aimed to vanish swift against the tapered seams of first light.  
  



End file.
